


Your phantasmagoria of starving dreams

by Baryshnikov



Series: Where Monsters lie [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Dreams vs. Reality, Insanity, M/M, Obsession, POV Second Person, Sensual gore, Stream of Consciousness, Vivisection, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 21:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16900341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: You only want a taste, just a little taste.





	Your phantasmagoria of starving dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is a bit weird and unexpected, and I apologise for it. 
> 
> Set from Tom's perspective

All you want is a taste, is that so wrong?

All you want is a taste: a taste of his lips. You want to touch them, feel their cracks, learn their shapes, understand how you fit together. You want your fingers between those lips, want them hooked into his mouth, filled with thirty-two pearls. He’ll look up at you with no fear in his eyes, you love how trusting he is. He thinks you are friends, he thinks you’ll never hurt him. He doesn’t need to know you’re thinking of pulling out those pearls from his pretty pink mouth, or that you so desperately want to scratch your name into his tongue and watch the blood drip from his lips. You’d wipe it away, of course, smear it across his chin, remind him that _this_ is what he loves and what he hates about himself. He can’t look away from you, even when his mouth is filled with blood, he looks to your tongue so stained with black lies to soothe him. You are dutiful. You pay him all the attention you care to give, but you can’t take your eyes off his lips; you just have to have a taste, only a little taste. 

All you want is a taste: a taste of his neck. He always smells so good, though not polished, not clean and meticulous, like yourself. No, he smells of petrichor, wet leaves on wet earth. Damp smiles in the haze of the rain. You want to dig your fingers into that neck, dig until you find the soil beneath his skin and the forests in his bones. If there is a dampness, there must be rot, and how you want to uncover it. You want to find what sickness is inside him, want to press your fingers into his throat, leaving purple nebulas and green smudges ingrained in his skin; you want to take it all too far. To push your nails through his flimsy skin, watching how the blood pools in his collarbones, watch how it stains streaks as the pools overflow, almost as though his body is crying. That would only encourage you though, his body crying out for you to slide your fingers all the way through him, splitting him open just for you. You swallow and content yourself with sliding your tongue across his throat and only dreaming of the red chaos you could create. The one you will create when he is finally ready to let you have everything his body can offer, after all, you just have to have a taste, only a little taste. 

All you want is a taste: a taste of his fingers. To hold them, trace the patterns on his fingertips as lie beside him. To have them in your own mouth, teeth against the knuckles, only a few millimetres separating you from the bone. You can imagine slicing through them as if they were no more than carrots. But you don’t, there are much more exciting things you hope to do than slicing his fingers with your teeth. You kiss those fingertips ever so gently, reminding him that you can be slow and soft and safe when you want to be, reminding him, he has no reason to be afraid. After all, the sickness that infects you, it is already inside him. His fingers are soaked with it, there is mould growing on his bones and a pestilence under his fingernails. You love kissing him in the dark, when he can pretend its all a dream, and that you are not really there, kissing his fingers, like an angel. You love that he thinks he’s still in control, that he thinks to kiss in the dark hides his transgressions. Perhaps it does blind the god in the skies, but it doesn’t blind you. There are all sorts of sins hidden in the lines on his fingers, each gentle crevice has a secret to share and you can’t wait to uncover them all. He watches you in the dark when you are on your knees and his fingers are wound around your tongue; he watches you, and you watch him, fingers sliding deeper. You promise yourself just have to have a taste, only a little taste. 

All you want is a taste: a taste of his thighs. You want to push him back, hands on his knees, waiting for him to look at you. He will. He won't be able to resist. He’ll only give you a glance. But that’s all you need. One glance and he’s yours, once glance and he can’t look away, one glance in the light of the dark and he’s fallen in love. You like his thighs, hard with adolescent muscles, but still so soft with childish youth. Still so white and innocent, a pretty canvas for you paint with an inverted rainbow of indiscretions, and you do. Your white fingerprints rimmed with red, dark teeth marks, tinged with pink like an ancient masterpiece. Your body against his in a way he’s never felt before, you are the first and the last to leave marks on his thighs. There is a thrill to that, knowing you will be forever seared into every memory he ever has. That doesn’t stop you though if anything it encourages you to bite harder. You love to watch him, to watch as he watches you. You can see how he swallows, how his fingers tie themselves in knots with the blanket, you see everything he doesn’t want you to. Sometimes you almost feel ashamed for seeing him stripped back, so bare, so raw, so naked to the world, but if he didn’t want you to see him like that, he shouldn’t have let you crawl between his thighs. If he didn’t want your hands or your lips or your mouth scraping all over his skin, he shouldn’t have let you get so close. But he didn’t stop you. He said nothing when your hands hooked into his belt loops. He said nothing when you got to your knees before him. He said nothing when your thumbs started circling his hips. He said nothing, so, you do as you like. You bite wherever you want, and smile when you hear him suck cold air between his teeth, desperate for you not to find out that he likes what you do. He’s so far behind it’s almost pitiful; you already know all his secrets, and you just have to have a taste, only a little taste. 

All you want is a taste: a taste of his lungs. You would be gentle, well as gentle as you can when cutting someone open. Peeling his body back, stripping his layers like he is a present, made only for you. Not that you want to kill him, that would break what’s left of your heart. No, all you want to do is find that monster, that beautiful sickness, and drag it to the surface. You press your fingers to his chest and you can almost hear his ribs crack underneath your hands. It is so much easier to reach between a shattered rib cage, to break away the brittle bones and stare forever at the swelling and sinking of his lungs. You have always wanted to touch them, to slide your fingers past and press into the walls. Feel the texture his body, and wonder whether his lungs feel like yours. In the darkest corner of your mind, you hope they do; they are infected with the same disease and breathe the same burning air. You see no reason for his lungs not to be like yours, and yet you wonder. Perhaps your lungs are not so pink, perhaps they do not pulsate so perfectly. Perhaps they are numb and broken, whilst his lungs are so sensitive, leaving him shuddering at every sensation. Once, when you were so young, you wanted to do this to other small children, but this better. Now, you get to watch your doppelganger, you get to watch his eyes roll and his back arch, knowing they are just as much _your_ eyes, and just as much _your_ back. Like this you get to see those perfect lungs swallowing oxygen, you get to see them inflating and deflating, inflating and deflating and inflating, it’s hypnotising, and you never want it to stop. But even as those pretty pink wings that convert your death to life rise, you know there is an infection that festers in every bronchiole, and you just have to have a taste, only a little taste. 

All you want is a taste: a taste of his heart. It is where his sickness lies, right in the centre of his fragile mortality, trapped in a red prison, as if its inside a Fabergé egg. You know then, he is just like you, a monster from the inside out. You’ve never met anyone like you before, never met anyone who understands the ache in your heart, that burning behemoth that scrapes its nails under your skin, the creature that writhes within you, that whisperer in your ear and that thing that makes your own heart throb. You cannot believe that once you wanted to hold your heart like this, not when could’ve held other people’s and felt _their_ life beating away. You like his heart. You like the red blurring with the seams of ivory, both merging into the purple veil. The colours mixing and blending, hazing your vision and making your hunger that much worse. You want his heart in your hands, want it against your tongue. You want it in your mouth, chewing it in front of him, swallowing, reminding him that he belongs to you. You can practically feel it sliding down your throat and you trace the feeling with your fingers. He is nothing but a pretty angel whose heart is ready to burst with a disease that will consume him, and you can’t wait for his blood to turn blue and his heart to stop beating while it’s still in _your_ hands. But his whimpers make you open your eyes. You’re breathing too heavily, and your hands are empty, and his body is still whole. You lie still for a moment, trying to remember when you forgot, trying to grasp that scorching high once again. But it eludes you, and slowly you realise that you have neglected him, spent too long in your perfect visions, spent too long dreaming of what could be, when he is lying there, spread so open for you. You kiss his lips, and mouth his neck, your nails sliding up his thighs, and running red lines up his chest. You bite a little harder and dig your fingers a little deeper. You are barely scratching the surface and yet there is such a throbbing in your heart, and an irrepressible desire to tear him apart. He whines again, and you just have to have a taste, only a little taste. 

All you want is a taste, is that _really_ so wrong?


End file.
